Three Times is Enemy Action
by Aurilia
Summary: Once again, Harry, Sam, and Dean are on a Hunt together, only this one may turn out to be the most important Hunt of all. Harry Potter xover, rated M for language, not slash. Sequel to 'Twice is Circumstance'.
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer:** This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by J.K. Rowling; various publishers including, but not limited to, Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books; and Warner Bros., Inc. This story is also based on characters and situations created and owned by the writers, producers, et al of the television show 'Supernatural'. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended. This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to any person, internet persona, or other being, living or dead, is completely coincidental and unintentional unless otherwise noted.

**A/N:** This is the first chapter of the third story in my planned trilogy. The first story is called 'Once is Happenstance'. The second is 'Twice is Circumstance'. If you've not yet read those, you can go ahead and read this, but you'll probably be highly confused. It's post-OotP for HP and goes AU for SPN after season two.

Okay, just to say right out, in case you didn't catch the memo in the last fic, I'm going with JKR's original intent of Harry's birthday being July 31, 1980. What this means is that he's 27, Dean's 29 (his DOB is January 24, 1979), and Sam just turned 25 (DOB of May 2, 1983).

* * *

**Three Times is Enemy Action**

_10:03 pm, May 10, 2008  
Bucky's Bar and Grill  
Winslow, Arizona_

Sam didn't notice his cell phone ringing; he was too busy ducking a well-aimed fist. Landing a jab in the substantial gut of the man in biker leathers didn't calm the chaos around him enough to hear it either. The biker doubled over with an 'oof' noise, colliding with Sam's right knee on the way to the floor. Glancing over at Dean, Sam saw his brother was about to be hit in the back of the head with a broken-off pool cue, so he grabbed a mostly empty beer bottle and flung it. The bottle exploded in a spray of glass and foam on the head of his brother's would-be assailant. "Thanks, Sammy," Dean yelled, even as he spun out of reach of yet another biker.

"No problem," Sam called back, now busy avoiding being hit by the guy he'd beaned with the bottle, "And it's _Sam_!"

"Come on, man!" Much to Sam's astonishment, Dean was still trying to talk his way out, _Not that it'll do any good._ "It was just a game! I think you're overreacting!" Sam ducked another swung fist and dodged the broken cue, _Still, though. Dean's only ever quiet when he's up to something._

"It was three hundred bucks you stole, you sonuvabitch!" roared the biker, who picked up a bent bar-stool and threw it at Dean.

_Don't say it, Dean, please don't say it,_ Sam thought, blocking a swing of the broken pool cue, even as Dean batted the thrown stool out of the way. "Hey, dude, if you can't afford to lose, don't play!" _Damn it, Dean! I told you not to say it!_ Sam dropped and swept his leg out, connecting with the back of Biker2's knee. The man stumbled, but didn't fall.

The sound of a shotgun blast managed to silence the room, save for the sound of the juke playing 'Take it Easy' by the Eagles. Sam appreciated the irony.

A dozen or so people slowly emerged from hiding places behind overturned tables, including the pretty girl with the long, black hair and denim jacket Dean had been flirting with all night. The bartender pumped his shotgun. He didn't look at all pleased. "That's just about enough!" Yep, the bartender was thoroughly pissed, but Sam noticed that the spent shell the shotgun ejected was the distinctive blue of a riot-round – it contained dozens of little plastic pellets, not lead. Designed to hurt like hell, but not to maim or kill. _I have to wonder just how often this place gets rowdy._ "Mortimer, you got played. Deal with it before the kid puts you in the emergency room." _Mortimer?_ Sam had to choke back the urge to laugh. _The three-hundred-pound badass biker's name is _Mortimer_?_ "Why don't you and Tommy take Leroy home?" The man with the broken pool cue dropped his weapon and stepped towards the fallen Leroy. "These boys will be happy to cover your tab," he glared first at Dean and then at Sam, "right, boys?"

Dean wiped a trickle of blood from a cut on his temple and smiled, "Sure thing, boss."

The bartender addressed the rest of the room, "The rest of you – clear out. I'm closed for the night."

The rest of the crowd couldn't get to the doors fast enough – the brunette paused by the doors long enough to make the 'call me' signal to Dean. A chubby brunette stayed, leaning against the bar. "I'll start picking up, Dad."

The bartender nodded and replaced the shotgun on the rack above the rows of liquor bottles behind the bar. Sam noticed that it had a sign over it that read, 'Yes, it's real. No, I'm not afraid to use it.' "You do that, Lindsey. I'm sure these boys will lend a hand."

Sam hurried to help Lindsey with righting tables and chairs and cleaning up broken glass while Dean strode over to talk with Bucky, the bartender. "I'd ask what the damages are, but I can see that for myself," Dean said. "So… How much do I owe you?"

Bucky, a man who would normally give most people cause to pause, merely looked out over the room, one gray eyebrow arched over a brown eye and a serious expression on his weathered face. "Lindsey, turn off the damn juke, I can't hardly hear myself think!"

"Yes, Dad."

"You were saying?" Dean prompted in the sudden silence.

Bucky crossed his arms over his chest and leveled a smirking glare at Dean, "Come off it, son. You know and I know that you wouldn't have been hustling pool if you had the money to pay for all this."

Dean smiled outright, ignoring the bruising on the side of his head. "Could be I just enjoy the game. Could be that those three were the only competition in this place, aside from my brother – and I get sick of playing him all the time."

Bucky nodded slowly, "Could be, but _ain't_. I know your type, boy, and you live by this – though I'd wager you also play a mean game of poker, too. Now, I ain't got nothing against it – until it shows up in my place, and gets three of my best customers riled up and my pool table busted."

Dean glanced to where the pool table – the source of the evening's excitement – listed sharply to one end, the distinctive lines of wood poking up, straining the green felt. He shrugged and picked up an overturned bar stool to sit on. "Once upon a time, you would be dead right. But not any more. So, what do we owe you?"

"If that's the way you want it, son, so be it. I figure you owe three thou for general damages, two hundred for the booze, and thirty-five hundred for a new pool table." The man's tone indicated that he expected Dean to try to dispute the claim.

Dean reached for his jacket and realized he wasn't wearing it. "Hey, Sam? What happened to my coat?"

Sam located the table they'd been sitting at and extracted the worn, brown leather jacket from an overturned chair. "Here," he tossed it over to his brother and returned to helping Lindsey.

Dean patted down the pockets and withdrew a thick white envelope. "Three and three is six and five and two is seven, so that's a total of sixty-seven hundred, right?" Dean couldn't help but smirk at the bartender's gobsmacked expression as he counted out a stack of hundred-dollar bills.

Once the reality of the gift Sam and Dean had received as a 'thank you' from Harry Potter had sank in, both brothers had taken to carrying anywhere from three to ten thousand in an envelope in their jackets – the Impala had a similar envelope in the glove box – because, with their lifestyle, they weren't always in areas where they could get to a bank or ATM when they needed to. Tonight was an excellent case-in-point. "What did you boys do, rob a bank?" Bucky eyed the bills with a combination of suspicion and thinly-veiled greed.

Sam answered from across the room, "No, the money's safe, I promise."

Sam's honest reply didn't stop Bucky from examining each and every bill, checking watermarks and comparing serial numbers. Lindsey sighed and paused in her cleaning efforts long enough to grab a felt-tip pen and handed it to her father. "Dad, this is faster, you know."

The pen was uncapped, and Dean saw that it was one of the same pens that convenience stores and banks used to verify that large bills were authentic. Bucky touched it to the corner of each bill and received the desired result. By the time he'd finished checking all sixty-seven bills, Sam and Lindsey were nearly done setting the room to rights. "Satisfied?" Dean asked.

Bucky grunted and pocketed the money. Both Sam and Dean were sure that the money would never be logged in the bar's books, and they were fine with that. "Where'd you come by that much cash?"

"Had a lucky couple of days in Vegas," Dean lied smoothly. "Gotta love folks who can't play poker."

Looking around the mostly-righted bar, Bucky nodded brusquely. "I think it's time for you two to leave."

"And not come back," Dean sighed.

"Precisely," Bucky agreed.

Sam and Dean exited the bar and were sitting in the Impala before they broke down laughing. "I don't know which is more fun," Sam said. "Watching you hustle pool or watching the owners' reactions when you actually do pay for all the damage at the end of the night."

It was a rare occurrence when Dean was unable to tell if Sam was being serious or joking, but this was one of those times. Figuring he had a fifty-fifty chance of being right, he grinned. "I know, I know. What can I say? I'm just that good," He buffed the fingers of his right fist against his t-shirt before turning the ignition, and heading for their motel; Dean ignored Sam's mildly exasperated/amused almost-bitchface the entire way.

Another bonus of the gift Harry had given the Winchesters was that they no longer _had_ to stay in motels that had last seen new towels the year they'd been built. They still did, on occasion, but that was usually because the cheap motels were the only kind to be had in small towns – unless it was a bed and breakfast, and Dean _refused_ to stay at those places. Just as the car pulled to a stop in the parking lot of a motel that not only had full cable, but room service and a pool, Sam's phone rang again. Sam pulled it out of his pocket and glanced at the caller-id. "It's Harry." He hit 'answer' and pressed his ear to the phone, "Hiya, Harry. Whacha need?"

There was the sound of strained breathing before a loud _thwack_ noise. A distant voice said, "Tell them, Potter, or so help me I'll track them down and skin them alive."

Dean watched as the friendly smile his brother had been wearing fell and shattered on the floorboards of the car. "What is it?" he whispered.

Sam shook his head a little. "Harry? That you, man?"

Harry's voice was a lot nearer to the phone than the previous one, but still not close enough for him to be the one holding the phone. "Fuck you, you asswipe. Leave them out of this."

Another _thwack_ and Sam was relatively sure he knew what was going on – someone had Harry bound against his will and was beating the crap out of him. "Come on, Harry. Where are you?" he yelled into the phone.

The first voice growled out something Sam couldn't catch, something 'see you', but the next sound raised the gooseflesh on the back of his neck and made him hold the phone away from his ear. Harry was screaming. Dean stared at the phone, not quite comprehending what was going on, but not liking the tinny sound emanating from his brother's cell. Nope, not liking it one little bit. The sound cut off suddenly and Sam had the phone back against his ear in a flash. "Harry! Talk to me!"

The first voice returned, louder this time. He had an accent similar to Harry's, though more pronounced. Actually, it sounded sort of like the accent Remus had, only cruel instead of kind. "If you ever want to see Potter alive again, you will come to 14329 Meadows Hill Road in Denver, Colorado. You have two days to show, or I'll kill Potter – and trust me, it _won't _be a quick death." The call ended before Sam could reply.

Sam immediately typed the address into his phone, holding one hand up to forestall Dean's questions before he could forget the address. When he saved the address, he turned to Dean. "I think Harry's in trouble."

"No shit, Sherlock. I kinda gathered that much. What's going on?"

"Some guy's got him – and from the sound of it, is having a heck of a time beating him to a pulp. He wants us to go to this address, or else he'll kill Harry."

Dean craned his neck to look at the address displayed on the phone. "Denver? We could make it there tonight. Seven hours, maybe seven-and-a-half if we haul ass."

"Dude said we had two days – probably means he doesn't know for sure where we are."

Dean nodded thoughtfully, "Did the guy say what he wants from us?"

Sam shook his head, "No, just that if we didn't show within the next two days, he was going to kill Harry in what I'm sure would be a gruesome manner."

"Hafta wonder what this is all about… I mean – why'd the guy call _us_?"

Sam shrugged, "Don't know, Dean. You want to head out tonight, then?"

Dean nodded and handed Sam the keys, "You go fill her up; I'll have everything packed before you get back." _Damn, I was really looking forward to a swim, too._

Less than twenty minutes later, the Winchesters were headed south, the black Impala cruising at roughly ninety or ninety-five miles per hour – and somehow, the late-night truckers still managed to pass them with alarming regularity – Led Zeppelin playing in the cassette deck all the while.

* * *

_12:29 am, May 11, 2008  
14329 Meadows Hill Road  
Denver, Colorado_

Harry sighed and shivered, pulling the thin blanket a little tighter around his shoulders. An unfinished basement room in Colorado wasn't the warmest place to be in the middle of May. _I hate this. I hate that this happened to me, that this _keeps_ happening to me, and that I can have this thought. How many times am I going to be housed in a dungeon? Granted, this isn't the manor in Wiltshire, nor is it the basement of the Riddle house, or any of the others, and there aren't any racks, whips, chains, or other torture devices handy. The silencing spells in the walls are the same, so are the anti-apparation spells, and the walls are still thick stone, and the floor is as cold as ever. Why'd that coin land heads-up? If it had landed tails, I'd be in Kentucky or Ohio right about now, and I wouldn't be in this situation._

Harry had finished up a job in Miami and hadn't wanted to linger, not with hurricane season looming on the horizon, and so had flipped a coin to decide between heading north or west. He had started the journey looking forward to maybe taking a week off and touring Yellowstone. He felt he'd deserved a brief vacation after first _finally_ taking care of the Voldemort problem and then working back-to-back cases ever since.

He'd reached Denver and decided to stop for the night, so he had gotten a motel room in an out-of-the-way place that probably had the option to rent rooms by the hour, in addition to their daily and weekly rates. It was a normal place for him, and he was already missing it. He'd slept for a couple of hours before waking up and breaking out his computer. He remembered wondering if he could get away with staying in a place with an indoor pool for a little while; it had been too long since he'd been swimming. He had just finished up reading the local news for the Yellowstone basin – just to make sure there wasn't anything fishy going on – when his motel room door had been blasted off its hinges. He had been taken completely by surprise, and had barely had time to register what had happened before a stupefy had hit him dead-center.

He had come to in this basement room. A concrete floor, three concrete walls, and a fourth wall built of red brick, with a single fluorescent light hanging overhead, a cot in one corner, and a bucket in the other. Harry wasn't sure how long he'd been there, but was pretty sure it couldn't have been more than a couple of hours. Most stupefy spells only lasted an hour or so, but when his captor had stormed in not long after he'd woken, he discovered that the man had made stunning spells something of a specialty – he'd been out for nearly a full day.

After some rather monotonous gloating, his captor had his wand in one hand and Harry's phone in the other. In clipped, terse words, the had described his problem and demanded that Harry fix it. Harry refused – it wasn't his area, to be honest, and he really didn't feel like helping the man when it was highly likely that he would simply kill him or turn him over to the Ministry when his usefulness had been outlived. The man hit him with a painful bout of cruciatus, and Harry still refused. So the man had turned his attention to the cell phone. "I'm curious, Potter," he had said, his voice laced with a mocking derision that grated on Harry's nerves, "why someone of your affability has only five contacts in his phone? The Secretary of Magic – no surprise there, you always did manage to make friends with the most highly politically placed member of the White that you could find. A man I know to be a skilled mediwizard – again, no great shock, other than the fact that he actually _has_ a phone number. A place called 'The Roadhouse'. And two names I don't recognize. Dean W and Sam W. Who are they?"

Harry had shrugged a little. "They're just friends of mine."

That made his captor hit him physically for the first time. The situation quickly escalated until, under the influence of a truth charm and one too many hits to his head, Harry managed to blurt out, "They're Hunters!"

"Hunters?" the man had asked, a puzzled expression on his face.

Still reeling from what he was sure was a mild concussion and the truth charm, Harry explained how there were a handful of muggles who had dedicated themselves to the eradication of evil and that they called themselves 'Hunters'. Harry's captor had actually smiled at the explanation and called the number that was still on the display – Sam's.

Once he had finished the call, he had removed the truth charm from Harry, smirked, and left Harry alone in the dark. _I really, really hate him._

* * *

_7:41 am, May 11, 2008  
Keene Motel  
Keenesburg, Colorado_

Dean pulled the Impala to a stop and poked Sam in the shoulder. "Come on, Samantha, time to wake up."

"My name's _Sam_, you jerk." Sam cracked an eye open. "Where are we and why did you stop?"

"We're about thirty miles outside Denver. Keenesburg. I need some sleep before we figure out what to do next."

After securing a room for the day, Dean flopped onto a bed and was asleep before Sam could finish closing the motel room door. Sam retrieved his laptop and booted it up. _As always, the research is my job._ Sighing, he located a WI-FI network and began looking up information regarding the address they were to go to. By the time the sun had finished rising, he knew that the address was a large house in an affluent part of Denver, that it had recently been purchased by a 'T. N. Salazar', and that, other than the information at the county assessor's office, 'T. N. Salazar' didn't exist.

* * *

**A/N2:** I know it's a bit shorter than the average chapter length for this series, but I'm considering this the 'teaser'. I spent nearly all day working on various aspects of it – seriously, the muse just wouldn't shut up – and then, just when I was about to shut down and go to bed, my muse hit me with the opening few paragraphs for the chapter (yeah, I don't often write a chapter from one end to the other, I write the scenes as they come to me, which is a big part of why it takes me so long to write a chapter for AaO, 'cause I always feel like I'm forgetting important bits).

Anyhow, this is the springboard for the third installment in this series. I won't say 'final', because I might want to revisit this universe in the future, but TTiEA is the last _planned_ story for this arc.

Review and let me know what you think – and to let me know what your theories for this tale may include.


	2. Chapter 2

**Disclaimer:** This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by J.K. Rowling; various publishers including, but not limited to, Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books; and Warner Bros., Inc. This story is also based on characters and situations created and owned by the writers, producers, et al of the television show 'Supernatural'. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended. This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to any person, internet persona, or other being, living or dead, is completely coincidental and unintentional unless otherwise noted.

**A/N:** I've never been inside the Denver Public Library, but I've driven past it before (actually, Dad was driving, Mom was asleep, and I was reading the map), so I hope my fanciful imaginings of its insides can be forgiven if they're too far from what it actually is.

* * *

**Three Times is Enemy Action**

_2:12 pm, May 11, 2008  
Denver Public Library  
10 W 14__th__ Avenue Parkway  
Denver, Colorado_

"Thanks, Leanne. We'll keep you posted, promise." Dean snapped his cell shut with a flick of his wrist and returned it to his pocket. Sam looked up from the archaic tome he was leafing through. Dean let out a huff of breath and started pacing a little. He and Sam had a table tucked back among stacks of the types of books that had probably last been looked at when Eisenhower was in office. "She's clueless on this one, other than what we already figured – 'T. N. Salazar' is an assumed name. Any luck on the history of that subdivision?"

Sam shook his head, "Nothing. It's so clean, it practically squeaks."

"She did say it was probably someone who's also from the UK –"

"_I_ could have told you that."

Dean continued on as though Sam hadn't interrupted him, "because 'Salazar' was one of the dudes who built Hogwarts. Supposedly was the nasty one who got kicked out of his own school for being 'an insensitive, bigoted prick' – those were her exact words."

"Did you find anything on the weather before she called back?"

Dean shook his head, "Nothing to lead me to believe it's anything demonic."

Sam idly wondered just why it was that his brother always pronounced it _de_-monic, rather than the normal duh-_mon_-ic and sat the book he'd been reading aside. "So, unless this is a whole different ballgame, we can pretty much bank on the fact that it's likely one of those wizards who're not too happy with Harry."

Dean nodded, "But what the fuck would they want with _us_?"

"Who knows? You've said it yourself, Dean – people are just crazy." Sam stuffed his mostly-blank notebook back into the satchel and crammed the laptop in on top of it.

It only took a few minutes to navigate their way through the cavernous interior of the library and back into the sunshine. The Impala, parked on Broadway, gleamed dully. Dean silently promised to run her through a car wash when they finished up here. "Okay, so what do we know about the people after Harry?"

"Hmm…" Sam searched his memory. "He's mentioned how they're dependent on their wands."

Dean tried. Really he did. But he couldn't help the grin that surfaced, nor the quip, "That sounds vaguely dirty."

Sam rolled his eyes, and indicated that Dean needed to take the next right. "He also told us how they tend to underestimate what nonmagical people can do, so we should have the advantage if we can surprise them."

"Doesn't sound too hard – they probably don't know we're in the area."

* * *

_2:30 pm, May 11, 2008  
14329 Meadows Hill Road  
Denver, Colorado_

Harry was hungry. He got that way when focusing himself inwards to heal the mostly superficial wounds he got while Hunting. It wouldn't have been so bad this time had that fucking bastard not used the cruciatus; _But that's what I get for getting caught by yet another unimaginative prick. Really need to not get myself into these situations._

Sitting on the floor, he could feel footsteps through the concrete, even if the spells on his cell kept him from hearing them. Reacting quickly, he hurled the bucket up at the unprotected fluorescent light; the two bulbs popped and rained glass down into the center of the room. He felt his way along the wall until he was standing to the side of the heavy metal door set in the middle of the red brick. Silently ordering his growling stomach to shut the fuck up, the door opened.

A wand appeared, "What the –"

Harry reached out and snatched the wand with one hand while the other grabbed the man's forearm and pulled him into the cell with a grunt. The man's skull collided with the doorframe mere seconds before meeting Harry's fist. "Stupefy," Harry hit the man with the stunner before he could recover.

He bound the man with conjured rope and went through his pockets, locating little of value, before mobilicorpusing the twat and heading for the stairs he saw through the open door.

The house was rather normal – if the home of a suspected Death Eater could be called that. _No, even for a follower of the Supreme Wanker, this place is… _So_ not what I expected._ It was new, probably built only a few years earlier, and big in the way only modern mansions could be. It was also oddly cheerful and bright, nothing at all like any of the other pureblood homes he'd ever been inside. _Well, mostly not like those other places._ It was still pretentiously large, a veritable monument to wealth, but there weren't any Dark artifacts on display – no mounted house-elf heads, no bits of Dark creatures posing as decoration. In fact, had Harry not known who lived there, he would have assumed this was the home of an affluent muggle with surprisingly good taste.

He located the kitchen in short order, and figuring that he was owed at least a sandwich for his 'inconvenience,' helped himself to some turkey, cheese, bread and a bottle of imported beer. The beer wasn't as good as the hype, and Harry resolved to sticking to domestic brands in the future. Once the rumbling in his innards quieted somewhat, he set out after locating his things. After checking nearly all the rooms on the first floor, he finally located his host's study, much to his dismay.

"No, no, no, no! Damn it, Nott, you stupid son of a bitch!" His motorcycle was sitting on a blue plastic tarp, leaking oil and other assorted fluids. "If you weren't already unconscious…" He aimed his comments over his shoulder at his still-hovering companion while skidding to his knees in front of the bike. "You can't just shrink it and carry it around like some toy! Fuck!"

None too gently, especially since he was more than a little angry, Harry cancelled the hovering charm on Theodore – who made an interesting _thud_ when he hit the floor – and accioed his own wand. He tossed Nott's wand over his shoulder, not bothering to notice where it landed and immediately set to cleaning his bike. He even had to banish the contents of the gas tank when he found that oil had somehow managed to get inside. "You fucking wanker – not only do you fucking _kidnap_ me and expect me to be able to get you out of your fucking messes, but now this! You goddamn, mother-fucking, cock-sucking piece of _shit_!"

* * *

_3:04 pm, May 11, 2008  
14329 Meadows Hill Road  
Denver, Colorado_

"You sure you don't want to wait until night?" Dean asked for what was probably the fifth or sixth time since pulling into the newly developed area wherein the address they had was located.

Sam shook his head and gallantly refrained from rolling his eyes. "Make a left up ahead," he said in lieu of answering Dean's question.

Dean knew his brother had a point in coming up here during the daytime; they were just driving by, getting a feel for the area, but _damn_ if the techno-mansions of the area didn't just set Dean on edge. It wasn't quite the same unease he had in middle-class suburbs. In that instance, it was the uniform consistency of the neighborhoods he had issues with. In this part of Denver, however, it was more the fact that he had absolutely _nothing_ in common with _any _of these people. If it was an older moneyed area, he might find an old-timer who'd made his millions doing something resembling work or someone who had a hobby he could relate to – _Like that dude in Hollywood who restored classic cars in his spare time, the one who'd ended up with that haunted Spider. That was probably the easiest job I ever did. Three hours of research, one night in a cemetery, and three days hanging out with an even dozen of the coolest cars ever made. What was that guy's name again? _ – not here, though. These folks got their cash by sitting in front of a computer screen or by other means which Dean didn't feel were honest _work_.

Dean was startled out of his musings by the sound of his cell phone ringing. He flipped it open and saw that the caller-id said it was Harry's phone. "Hello?" he kept his tone neutral.

"Dean? How far out are you and Sam?"

"Dude, you okay?"

Harry huffed out a little puff of air; Dean could practically see him rolling his eyes. "Yeah. I'm not some damsel-in-distress."

"What about the guy who had you?" Dean was purposefully ignoring Sam's efforts to catch his attention.

"No longer an issue, he's out cold at the moment. But you didn't answer me. How far out are you and Sam?"

"Just a couple of blocks, why?"

"Could you stop somewhere and get me four quarts of motorcycle oil, six galleons of premium, two packs of cigarettes, some caffeine, and some lunch for all three of us? Oh, and you've got a tool kit in your car, right?"

Of all the things Harry could have said, _that_ was the last thing Dean expected. "Huh?"

"The fucker dicked with my bike," Harry explained, "so, I need to fix it."

"You'll explain all this when we get there, right?"

"Yeah."

"See you soon," Dean flipped his phone shut and whipped the Impala in a U in the same motion.

"What's going on?" Sam asked, bracing himself against the dash with his knees.

"Situation's changed. Don't know the details yet, but Harry promised he'd explain when we got there."

"The address is behind us," Sam pointed out.

"Yeah, I know, I'm not a freakin' idiot. Harry needs a few things."

It took about an hour and a half for the Winchesters to obtain the items Harry'd asked for and return to the wealthy subdivision. Sam carried the sacks containing the requested oil, smokes, and some take-out from a fast-food joint while Dean balanced a five-gallon can of gas, a small duffel, and his battered tool box. Harry met them at the door with an exasperated, "Finally."

A few moments later, the three of them were ensconced in Nott's study, gnawing their way through burgers and fries. Harry talking between mouthfuls while simultaneously correcting the damage done to his Harley. "So, yeah, maybe I wasn't as vigilant as I should've been, but I fucking got rid of the damn Dork Lard, so I sorta forgot for a bit that there were other wankers out there gunnin' for me. Anyway," he crumpled the burger-wrapper and set to cracking open the bottles of oil, "to cut to the chase, as it were, Nott here," he jerked his head in the direction of the still-out-cold man lying in a haphazard heap on the hardwood floor, "has a double problem. The first bit isn't anything I'm willing to help with, but the second's why he called you."

"And that would be…?" Dean asked, snaking a couple of fries from Sam and earning a glare for his efforts.

"Contrary to all bets from when we were in school, Teddy managed to land himself a wife. Pretty one, too, if the pictures are anything to go by," Harry nodded towards the portrait that hung over the small marble fireplace. "But, starting about a year ago, she began acting weird. Nott did some digging and found out she's possessed. Now, our boy Teddy there, he flunked his seventh year at Hogwarts and had to repeat – so, no, he's not the brightest lumos in the wand-shop. Something like a boggart is a bit out of his league, so a full-on possession _really_ isn't something he should be fucking around with. Combine that with his apparent defection from the Death Eaters and we have a clueless wizard who has no idea how to fucking _ask_ for help."

Anger and resentment practically _dripped_ from Harry's words. "What's his other problem?" Sam asked.

"Aside from being a festering boil on the ass-crack of humanity?" Harry sniped, finishing with the oil and moving on to inspecting the chain.

Dean snorted Coca-cola out his nose at the description. "Yeah," he sneezed to clear his sinuses, "aside from that."

"Oh, just that since we sent His Royal Prickiness to Hell in a handbasket, he's been using his connection to drain his followers of first their magic, then their life. Don't know why – he's in Hell and he's gonna stay there. But it wouldn't be the first time the giant question-mark did something illogical in hopes that it'd get him what he wants." Harry made a few adjustments with a wrench before glancing over at his would-be captor. "I'm not ticked at the intel, just in how it was acquired."

Sam nodded, "Yeah, I can see how the whole getting snatched would put a damper on wanting to help the dude."

A groan from the man on the floor interrupted any further discussion. Dean, his sinuses still tingling from their run-in with carbonation, sat the waxed cardboard glass containing the aforementioned beverage down and slid off the corner of the desk. Sam quickly unzipped the duffel and tossed a coil of rope to Dean.

Before Theodore had a chance to figure out just what had gone so monumentally wrong in his plan, he was tied to his own office chair, facing two of the most intimidating muggles he'd ever laid eyes on. The fact that Potter was ignoring them in favor of his motorbike was just salt in the wound, so to speak. There were only a few people still among the living who could have told Teddy that he was treading on thin ice when he abducted Harry; but Nott didn't know any of those people, and probably wouldn't have listened to the warnings if he did. As it was, it was probably a good thing that he was facing the Winchesters and not Leanne or Remus. Not that he knew _that_, either. No, he wasn't facing an irate werewolf, nor the American Secretary of Magic, but a lowly pair of muggles, which triggered some inbuilt irony-appreciating segment native to all Slytherins' brains.

"Who –" Theodore started a question, but was interrupted.

"I don't think we've introduced ourselves, have we?" the shorter of the two muggles stated, a smirk playing at the corners of his mouth.

"No. No, I don't think we have," the taller one replied, standing a bit too close to Theodore for the man's peace of mind. In fact, the shaggy-haired man was practically _looming_ over him.

"I'm Dean," the one wearing the Mesopotamian protective amulet said.

"And I'm Sam." The taller one _so_ didn't look like a 'Sam' to Theodore. _Samson, maybe, but not plain 'Sam'._

"And we really don't take kindly to wormy little asswipes like yourself causing problems with our friends," Dean continued the 'conversation'. "Now, we heard about your petty little problems from Harry, but you wanna fill in some of the blanks, Ted?"

"Stick to the demon trouble for now," Sam cut him off before he could do more than open his mouth.

Sure, Theodore knew that there were better ways he could have gone about enlisting some help, but he wasn't thinking all that clearly lately. It had started off small, just feeling more tired than usual, but by the time he'd spotted Potter, the lack of quality sleep had severely impaired his judgment and he'd fallen back on the training from his childhood – if he couldn't buy what he wanted, simply taking it was acceptable. It must have been insanity on his part; he momentarily forgot just _who_ he was taking when he did the deed.

The rope binding him to his chair was cutting cruelly into his chest. "Could you untie me?"

"Not on your life, Ruxpin. Now start talkin'," Dean's voice was some weird combination of oddly cheerful and deadly serious. Nott had no clue as to the origins of the name Dean had called him, nor why it made Sam wrinkle his forehead and pinch the bridge of his nose; he could only assume it had been an insult.

Knowing that he probably wasn't going to get out of this wholly intact, he did as he was asked and launched into his story. "It all started just about a year ago…"

When he finished, his throat was cracking and dry, but no one offered him anything to drink. He watched as Sam and Dean appeared to hold an entire conversation consisting of facial expressions and posture, with the odd huff of air thrown in for seasoning. Eventually, they seemed to come to a consensus and both nodded.

Dean untied the rope, "You try anything, and I mean _anything_, you worthless sack of shit, and you'll be joining up with your lord and master a helluva lot sooner than you expected. Got me?"

There wasn't a doubt in Theodore's mind that the muggle could follow up on his threat, and so he nodded, but couldn't stop himself from saying, "But he's not my master. Never really was. The Mark was… An unfortunate side-effect of being my father's son." He watched as the taller muggle dug through a battered duffle before locating what he was searching for and tossing it to Dean.

"You said she gets home every evening about six, right?" Sam asked, snatching up another cylindrical object which was longer and thinner than the one Dean held. He shook it a couple of times, and it made an odd rattling noise as something bounced around within its metal casing.

Theodore nodded again and wondered briefly just what happened to his wand. "What's that?"

Dean smirked as he headed out of the office, "Insurance, Questor."

Sam followed his brother, and before the door could close behind him, Theodore heard the taller man ask, "Since when do you read Terry Brooks?"

"Shuddup, Sammy."

Nott slowly stood, pausing as the room spun around him. He ignored the dull aching throb coming from his left arm, much as he'd been doing for going on six months now, ever since it had dawned on him just why it was acting up. "Potter?"

"Go fuck yourself on a rubber duck, Nott," Harry spat, not turning his attention from the motorcycle.

Theodore winced a little, "I deserved that."

"You don't deserve jack shit in my opinion," Harry reattached something he'd removed and wiped his hands on his jeans before standing. He grabbed the clutch lever and attempted to start the bike. It made an odd whirring noise before a bright spark arched out from halfway up the handlebars, but the engine didn't turn over. "Son of a cunt-faced whoring _bitch_," Harry mumbled before starting to tinker with the wiring.

"Where's my wand?" Nott asked, looking around the chaos in which Harry knelt.

"If it was up your arse you'd know, wouldn't you?" Harry glared up at Theodore. "If you can't find it on your own, you don't deserve to call yourself a wizard."

Theodore ignored the glaring and looked closer at the various and sundry tools which surrounded Harry. He spotted Harry's wand, but not his own. He sighed and started looking elsewhere, checking the top of his desk first. He felt more than a little naked without it. "What's the matter, Nott? Can't do a simple wandless accio?"

"Not all of us are the fucking Boy-Who-Lived, Potter," Nott snarked back, his quest to locate his wand was starting to grow a little frantic.

"Thank Merlin for that," Harry shuddered melodramatically while reaching for his own wand. "Just imagine, a world filled with billions of copies of _me_. Would get a little boring, don't you think?" He removed a wire from the bike and hit it with a reparo charm, fixing the spot in its insulation where the copper innards shone through.

Nott paused in the ransacking of his own desk and had to laugh at what Harry'd said. "Were you always this funny, Potter, or is the sense of humor a recent acquisition?"

Harry glanced up from reattaching the wire, "Recent, of course. Bought it off of a guy who said it belonged to his grandmother who only ever used it on Sundays."

The muggle joke flew right over Theodore's head. He blinked twice before resuming his search for his wand.

After determining that it definitely wasn't in his desk, he sat back down in the chair. His pulse was hammering in his ears and the drain from the Mark was making the room spin more than usual. He wiped a hand across his face and closed his eyes. "Hey, Nott. Just out of curiosity, why'd you take _me_?" There were some metal-against-metal noises punctuating the question.

"You were there," Theodore replied. "You'd always managed to solve things when we were in school, so I thought you'd be able to fix this, too."

"And you didn't bother _asking_ first." It wasn't a question but an accusation.

Nott slowly nodded, "It's not in my nature to _ask_, Potter. Besides, I'm not thinking clearly. I _know_ I'm not thinking clearly. My life is draining away through my arm and I saw what I thought would be a lifeline. I grabbed it while I still could. If I was thinking clearly, I'd be able to find my damn wand."

Harry made a final adjustment and attempted to start the bike once more. It roared to life. Harry smiled grimly at his handiwork, pride at having fixed the damage warring with anger at how it had been damaged in the first place. Cutting the engine, he started collecting Dean's tools and putting them back in the kit. Once he'd finished, he turned around and took a long look at his former classmate. Nott had always been pale; not quite as pale as Malfoy, but pale nonetheless. Now, he could give parchment lessons in being white. Dark circles ringed both his eyes. Harry sighed a little, "Accio Nott's wand."

The wand flew to Harry, who caught it and held it with his own. Nott slowly opened his eyes. Harry sat the tool kit on the desk and held Nott's wand out to him. "Use it against me even one more time, Nott, and I'll make sure you wish you were never born. Got it?"

Theodore knew that Potter could make good on the threat. After all, it had been pure luck which had allowed the Slytherin to capture Harry in the first place. Nott nodded again, "I swear on Slytherin's grave, Potter, I won't use it against you."

"Good," Harry replied, handing it over. "I'd hate to do to you what we did to Malfoy."

"Lucius? I thought he was in London?"

Harry shook his head, "Not Lucius. Draco."

"Who?" Nott was a little confused. He didn't recall ever having heard of a 'Draco Malfoy' before.

Harry didn't elaborate, simply grinned a feral little smirk and said, "Exactly."

* * *

**A/N2:** As you might imagine, this tale is only just beginning, so stay tuned! The next chapter will be out when it comes out, which will be whenever the muse dictates, but it'll contain just what Sam'n'Dean are up to.

I've also had a few folk ask about other HP/SPN crossovers. Unfortunately, the vast majority that I've been able to locate exist solely as a way to hook either Dean or Sam (or both) up with Hermione; though I did locate one wherein Dean and Harry are in the preslash part of their relationship (but I don't recall the name of either the fic or author – sorry!). I haven't found _any_ like what I've done here – where there's a conspicuous lack of romance.

Review and let me know what you think.


	3. Chapter 3

**Disclaimer:** This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by J.K. Rowling; various publishers including, but not limited to, Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books; and Warner Bros., Inc. This story is also based on characters and situations created and owned by the writers, producers, et al of the television show 'Supernatural'. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended. This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to any person, internet persona, or other being, living or dead, is completely coincidental and unintentional unless otherwise noted.

**A/N:** The diner described herein is a figment of my imaginative wanderings, though it's name and placement are taken from mapsquest dot com. Kinda like the library in the last chapter, only in this case I don't think I've even driven past it before.

* * *

**Three Times is Enemy Action**

_6:22 pm, May 11, 2008  
Wamble and Gape's Luxury Inn  
Merlin, New York_

Luna always liked visiting the US, mainly because hardly anyone thought her odd. Granted, she tended to stick to certain groups who were considered to be crackpots, but she knew better. Just because no one else had ever seen something didn't mean it didn't exist.

She sat her backpack down on the bed of her hotel room and thumbed through the half-dozen messages that had been left for her at the front desk. There was one from that gallery in New York City, asking when she'd have another series ready for them. There were two from her dad, making sure that she'd not been eaten by a Gamboling Hedgehog while in the wilds of northern Canada. One message from an individual in Brooklyn who wanted to know if she'd consent to doing a custom work and a second from a man who wanted to know if she did portraits.

The last message was rather worn-looking; its parchment envelope bore the distinctive markings of having been handled by numerous owls – either that or having been gnawed on by a Wesczliax. Luna dismissed the Wesczliax theory only because _everyone_ knew their spit was purple, and there weren't any traces of it on the parchment. Breaking the wax seal on the parchment revealed a plain white muggle envelope, which, if she was reading it properly, had been forwarded at least three times. The oldest postmark on it dated back to early November.

Even though curiosity might have killed the Pixerret, Luna wasn't a Pixerret, and so she opened the envelope. It contained a short note, the handwriting of which was entirely blocky capitals.

_Ms. Lovegood,_

_This is gonna sound nuts, but I swear I'm not some creepy stalker. I think I'm supposed to talk to you. It's too long a story to go into right now, but please call me when you get this. My number's 866-907-3235._

– _Dean Winchester_

_P.S. Harry said to tell you hi, and wanted to know if you ever caught something called a crumble-horned snorecat, or something like that._

Luna giggled at the note and tucked it into a pocket. She'd give the number a call after she'd had some dinner.

* * *

_6:10 pm, May 11, 2008  
14329 Meadows Hill Road  
Denver, Colorado_

"You gonna talk, bitch, or just sit there and yell at us all night?" Dean asked, leaning against the wall of the Nott mansion's foyer. Mrs. Nott had come home on time and strolled right into the devil's trap he and Sam – _Yeah, it was mostly the ginormitron with the ten-foot reach_ – had spray-painted on the ceiling.

"Your mother sucks cock in Hell!" she yelled back at him.

Dean rolled his eyes as he dug his flask out of his pocket. "Heard that one already, bitch. You demonic assholes really need to come up with some new material. Just in case you forgot, that's _not_ what I asked. How many more of you asshats who escaped the Gate are there?" He unscrewed the cap to the flask.

"Fuck you!"

"Wrong answer," he flung a splash of holy water on the woman. It burned holes in her red silk blouse, revealing the black lace underneath. "Sam?"

Sam didn't really need to read the exorcism out of the book any more, but it was good for helping him keep his place when Dean decided to go all Jack Cloonan on the demons. "Non ultra audeas, serpens callidissime, decipere humanum genus, Dei Ecclesiam persequi, ac Dei electos excutere et cribrare sicut triticum," he picked up where he'd left off when Dean started his questions. "Imperat tibi Deus altissimus, cui in magna tua superbia te similem haberi adhuc præsumis; qui omnes homines vult salvos fieri et ad agnitionem veritaris venire." He stopped when his brother motioned for him to do so.

"How many?" Dean repeated, threatening more holy water.

The demon cringed; it was obviously a low-level minion of Hell. Sam would be surprised if it actually knew anything worthwhile, but it never hurt to check. He just hoped that the woman it was possessing would be okay.

"Wouldn't you like to know?" she grinned at the brothers before spitting in Dean's direction.

Dean turned to face his brother, "Finish it, Sam. This one's just a peon. Probably doesn't even know how to tie its own shoes."

"Imperat tibi Deus Pater; imperat tibi Deus Filius; imperat tibi Deus Spiritus Sanctus," Sam recited. "Imperat tibi majestas Christi, æternum Dei Verbum, caro factum, qui pro salute generis nostri tua invidia perditi, humiliavit semetipsum facfus hobediens usque ad mortem; qui Ecclesiam suam ædificavit supra firmam petram, et portas inferi adversus eam nunquam esse prævalituras edixit, cum ea ipse permansurus omnibus diebus usque ad consummationem sæculi." All during the recital of the Latin passages, the demon was cringing and writhing worse than an epileptic in a techno dance club. Sam paused to take a breath before continuing onwards, but was interrupted.

"What the _hell _is going on?" Theodore had found the Winchesters. "What are you doing to her?"

Before Teddy could reach his wife, Dean grabbed him. "Finish it, Sam," he said before turning his attention on the master of the house. "We're just doing what you asked, you stupid son of a bitch." The sound of Sam's Latinizing overlapped Dean's words. "She's freakin' _possessed_, and exorcisms are tricky enough without you interrupting them."

Almost as though the Fates were listening in and decided now would be a good time to reassert their mastery of irony, Dean's cell phone began blaring out the guitar riff to Metallica's _Disposable Heroes_. He strong-armed Teddy over to a decorative wooden bench and said, "Sit, stay, and shut the fuck up." In reply to Sam's questioning look, he made a 'go on' motion with one hand while trying to dig out his phone without spilling what remained of the water in his flask.

He didn't recognize the caller-id, but knew that it was from a New York area code. He flipped it open just as Sam came to the end of the exorcism and Mrs. Nott threw back her head with a roaring scream as the demon escaped.

"Hello?" Dean said after the noise had died down.

"What was that?" an unfamiliar accented woman's voice replied.

"Um… Just the TV on too loud. Who is this?"

"Is this Dean Winchester?"

"Yeah."

"You sent me a note saying to call you when I got it. I'm sorry it took so long, but I've been busy hunting down evidence of the Blue Arctic Yetimite. I just got back today."

"I sent you a what now?" Dean asked, heading over to where Sam was now kneeling next to the unconscious woman. "She alive?" he whispered, turning the phone so that the chick on the other end couldn't hear his question.

"A note. I've got it here. Says that you're not a creepy stalker – which, if you were, I'm sure you wouldn't have sent me the letter, everyone knows the Creepy Stalker of Venezuela is totally illiterate – and that you needed to talk to me. Also says that Harry told you to tell me hi. Tell him I said hi back."

Realization suddenly dawned on Dean in a flash of a months-old memory of stumbling across a news article on an artist he was supposed to talk to; that is, _if_ he believed that weirdo vision-dream-thing he'd had the first time he'd laid hands on that damn bow. "Oh, wait a sec. You're Laura or Lorna or something Lovegood, right? That British artist?"

"That's right," she said, "though Daddy named me 'Luna', those other two sound really pretty, too."

Dean was rapidly coming to the conclusion that this chick was a few cards shy of a poker game, but pushed the thought away. Sam finished checking the unconscious woman and nodded, "She's out cold, but should live."

Dean nodded to show he'd heard Sam and said into the phone, "Look, this really ain't a good time. Can I call you back in a couple of hours?"

"I'm not often near a phone, but if it's that important for you to talk with me, I can meet you somewhere."

"I'm in Denver right now," Dean replied, holding the phone with his shoulder as he recapped the flask and put it back in the pocket of his jacket.

"That's okay. I was heading out to Washington later this week anyway. I'll just move the trip to now and stop by there on my way. I can be in the Denver area in about two hours."

"Um… yeah," even though he'd participated in a couple of the wizarding world's more unique forms of travel, it still threw him every now and again when Harry mentioned going an insane distance in a short bit of time. "There's this diner across from the capitol building, coupla blocks from the public library. Tom's Diner. Can you meet me there?"

"Sure thing," she said. "See you soon."

Dean flipped the phone closed and returned it to its pocket. "Who was that?" Sam asked.

"That artist I was s'posed to talk to back in November," Dean replied, lending a hand to Sam in picking up Mrs. Nott. Over his shoulder he glared at Theodore, "Show us where to put her."

Teddy scrambled to comply with the order and led the Winchesters up to the master bedroom. After settling his wife on the bed, Ted found himself being held an inch off the floor, back against the wall, and facing an extraordinarily irate Dean. "You _ever_ interrupt an exorcism again, you stupid little prick, and I'll _personally_ make sure you'll never walk again. Got it?"

Teddy nodded frantically. Dean let go of his shirt and Ted dropped to the floor. "Is Ann going to be okay?" he asked.

"Depends on what you mean by 'okay'," Sam replied. "Will she live? Yeah, she will. You might want to see if you can find a shrink, though. She'll probably need one."

* * *

_8:30 pm, May 11, 2008  
Tom's Diner  
Denver, Colorado_

The diner across from the capitol building could have been any one of hundreds of such restaurants the Winchesters had frequented over the years, though a bit cleaner than most. It still had the requisite tile floor, formica counter and table tops, and cheap vinyl seats – a couple of which had even been 'patched' with clear packing tape. A radio on a ledge over the pass-through to the kitchen was playing country at a moderate volume while a muted television mounted up near the ceiling was showing CNN.

An older man in a somewhat rumpled suit sat at the counter, steadily gnawing his way through a plate of meatloaf. The only other patron was ensconced in a window booth back near the restrooms and had apparently been there a while, if the oddly delicate construction of toothpicks, straws, and tape in front of her was anything to go by. She'd looked up when the bell over the door announced the arrival of the Winchesters and Harry. She smiled broadly, making the corners of her overlarge eyes crinkle. "Harry!"

Harry returned her smile, "Heya, Luna. Been a while, huh? Three, four years now?"

She shrugged, "Time's a meaningless –"

"Construct meant to give order to chaos. Yeah, Luna. I remember." Harry strode over to her table and looked at the 'sculpture'. "Lumos?"

She nodded, "Yeah. Daddy told me you finally finished what you started back in school."

"Should I even ask how he knows about that?" Her smile brightened and she opened her mouth to reply, but Harry held up a hand, "Never mind. I really don't want to know. You eat yet?"

"No, thought I'd wait for you – rather, for Dean Winchester. He's who I was waiting for. He come with you, or was this a happy accident?"

By this time, the Winchesters had joined Harry at Luna's table. "I'm Dean," the older brother said. "And this is my brother, Sam."

"Did you want to sit down, or were you enjoying your height?"

The brothers exchanged a look before quickly sliding in to the bench across from Luna. Harry took the empty spot next to the blonde. The waitress, seeing that the rest of the weird girl's group had _finally_ arrived, came over with her pen and pad in hand. "What can I get for everyone?"

After placing their orders, the group fell into small talk while waiting for the food. "Thought I'd drop in and see how Nott is doing while I was in the area," Luna mentioned, adding another toothpick to the abstract creation that was taking up most of the table space.

"Wait a minute," Harry reached over and turned the blonde's face to meet his own. "You know Nott lives here?"

Luna nodded, "Yeah. He and his wife. I introduced him to Ann. Thought they made a good couple. She's an art historian and he's got that job teaching history at the Rocky Mountain Magic Institute. It was a match made in boredom." Seeing the somewhat disbelieving look on Harry's face, Luna clarified, "Theodore isn't all that bad, for a Slytherin, you know. Spends too much time overly concerned with what happened yesterday, but then, so does Ann."

"Funny you should mention them, is all," Harry said before launching into the story of how he'd been a 'guest' of Nott's the past couple of days. He was just wrapping up the tale when the food arrived. Luna had Harry move her sculpture to the table next to theirs to make room for the plates and conversation turned to other topics.

Sam was slightly nauseated by the fact that Luna dipped her French fries in her vanilla milkshake, which was on a level with the fact that Harry apparently still preferred his hash browns with cheese and Tabasco sauce. Dean didn't seem phased at all by the bizarre eating habits of the British contingent of their table – _Then again, Dean's the one who downs more grease and oil in one meal than the Impala uses in an entire year._ Luna finished chewing the fry she had in hand and asked, "So, your note said you thought you needed to talk to me. Why the uncertainty? Either you need to talk to me or you don't."

Sam noticed that Harry had an odd little half-smirk on his face and was paying far too much attention to his omelet for him to be doing anything but listening intently. Dean took a swallow of his Coke and shrugged. "It's kind of a long story."

"Does that mean you _do_ need to talk to me, or is it that the story explains the uncertainty?" Harry made a noise that sounded suspiciously like strangled laughter and separated a bite of his sausage from the patty on the plate. Luna looked over at him, "You okay, Harry?"

Harry nodded, "Yeah. You shouldn't confuse him though – it's been a really long day for all three of us."

"If he's confused, it isn't _my_ doing. He should know his own mind." Luna picked up a triangle of her BLT and dipped it in the puddle of mustard on her plate.

"Hey, I _am_ right here, you know," Dean was starting to get a headache. He wasn't sure if it was from the spray-paint fumes earlier, dealing with that Nott fellow, or the fact that Luna was _definitely_ not firing on all cylinders, thus cementing the impression he'd had of her on the phone. "And I do know my own mind."

Luna's unblinking grey eyes flicked back to Dean, "We know you're right here. Unless, of course, you're not really here, but somewhere else, and have sent an illusion in your stead, but since you're actually eating, it would have to be a very _good_ illusion. And if you knew your own mind, you wouldn't be confused, and would know for sure if you actually needed to talk to me or not."

Dean's only reply was to blink blankly at her. Even Sam had trouble wading through her circular speech. Harry laughed outright. "Luna, allow me to speak in Dean's stead. Yes, he definitely needs to talk with you. What about, I'm not sure." He and Luna both turned expectant gazes on Dean.

Dean shook his head and resisted the urge to rub his temples. "Back in October, I ended up with this bow –"

"Was it blue?" Luna asked around a mouthful of BLT.

"What?" Dean toyed with the pickle spear on his plate. "No, it's mostly white with red, green, and… Okay, so it's partly blue. It's also got moonstone insets on either end, just inside the nocks."

"What's a nock?"

"The indents that hold the string." At Luna's continued stare, Dean clarified somewhat, "It's a hunting bow, not like a bow on a present." Dean paused long enough to snag a couple of bites of his burger. "Anyway," he continued, "it's supposedly this big deal back where you and Harry are from. I touched it and…" He trailed off, unsure as to how to describe what happened in his 'vision'.

Harry took the pause to insert, "It's the Bow of Diana, Luna."

Luna blinked once and brightened, "Oh, so you've met Artemis? And she told you to talk to me?"

Dean shrugged, "Not exactly. She told me to 'find the stag'. I saw an article on an art show you did in New York in November, and thought that the stag might refer to your paintings. But when Sam and me went to the gallery, you'd already took off to Canada, so I left the note."

"What did Artemis say, exactly?" Luna defiled yet another French fry and used it to punctuate her question.

Sam ignored his grilled chicken salad in favor of hearing Dean's reply. Dean had been oddly close-mouthed about the details of what he'd experienced after touching the bow the first time.

The older Winchester shrugged again, "Um… 'Find the stag and find your answers'."

"Well, we've managed to find one another. I don't know what answers I have for you, but I'll try my best."

Dean appreciated the sentiment, but now that he had actually found the person he was supposed to be talking with, he had no idea what to ask her. Something of this must have shown on his face because Sam stepped in with a question, "What can you tell us of the bow? I mean, Harry and another of our friends filled us in on the part it played in the tale of King Arthur, but do you know anything else about it?"

Luna finished off her fries. "Yes. I know that it was traditionally strung with unicorn hair."

"We got that, too," Dean said around a mouthful of burger.

"And that if it was wielded by one of Artemis' Chosen, it could have some interesting effects. One story tells of it throwing arrows of fire into an oncoming army. Another tale speaks of it acting as a sort of wand, providing the Chosen with unsurpassed magical control."

Dean snorted. "I think we can rule out that last."

"Why?"

"'Cause I sure as hell ain't no wizard."

"That's… odd," Luna replied. "In all the tales, Artemis' Chosen are _always_ mages."

Dean smirked, "If it helps any, she did say that I wasn't the type she normally preferred."

"What else do you know about it?" Sam asked.

Luna slowly shook her head, "If you're not a mage, then I don't know how much of what I know would be useful." She leaned her head on her hands, elbows propped to either side of her mostly-finished meal. "I did an essay on the bow for my fifth-year History of Magic class. I should still have it at Daddy's house. If you want me to, I can have him send it to you."

"Any intel's good intel," Dean replied, digging into his pockets for some paper and a pen. The pen he found with no trouble. Sam handed him the memo book he kept in his own pocket. Dean scribbled down Bobby's address in South Dakota and handed the slip to Luna. "Have it sent there."

"I will." Luna folded the paper in half and tucked it into the pocket of her light tan jacket before turning to Harry, "If you will excuse me, I should probably get going. My portkey for Walla Walla is set for twenty minutes from now."

Harry slid out of the booth and gave the blonde a quick hug, "See you around, yeah?"

She nodded, "Always." Luna paused next to Dean and picked up her strange sculpture from the table across the isle. Meeting Dean's eyes, she said, "I don't envy you."

"Why's that?"

"Because the only time Artemis ever chooses a Champion is when there's war coming. You've hard times ahead, Dean Winchester, and it'll be no use running from them." With that, she left the boys to finish their meal.

After she'd gone, Dean muttered, "Yeah, tell me something I _don't_ know."

"What's that, mate?" Harry asked, sliding back into his seat to polish off his breakfast-for-supper.

Sam grimaced, "I guess that means we still haven't really solved anything, huh?"

"Looks that way, Sammy," Dean poked at the few fries remaining on his plate, no longer interested in them.

"Someone wanna clue me in here?" Harry persisted.

"We've known for a while now that Hell was gearing up for a massive showdown," Dean explained. "Thought we'd put a stop to it back when I shot that son of a bitching demon that killed our mom."

Sam sighed and sat his fork down on the remains of his salad. "Should have known something that big wouldn't have been stopped just by killing him."

Dean nodded, "Yeah, every army has a hierarchy. Kill one general, and they just end up appointing another."

The corner of Sam's mouth furthest from his brother twitched. Dean couldn't see it, but Harry noticed the involuntary tick. _There's something Sam's holding back_, he thought. He didn't mention anything just then, however. Instead, he made a mental note to talk with the younger Winchester when Dean wasn't in the room. He pushed his plate away and groaned, "Perfect. As if I hadn't had my fill of wars."

"You don't have to get involved, you know," Sam said.

Harry quirked an eyebrow at him, "I don't? Funny, I thought I was already involved. After all, if what you say is true and Hell really is gearing up for the end of the world, won't every Hunter be prime targets? We're the soldiers here. We know what we're doing – most of the time, anyway – not like the general public, magical or muggle." He let a small smile surface, "Just because I tend to work alone _now_ doesn't mean I don't know the benefits of having someone there to watch your back in a fight."

* * *

**A/N2:** Going into this chapter, I assumed that the hardest part to write would be the portions with Luna. I was _very_ wrong – those turned out to be the easiest pieces. No, the main reason this is a bit long in coming is because of the last five hundred words or so. I rewrote the dialog among Harry, Dean, and Sam several times. I'm still not all that happy with it, but I don't know if I can tolerate working on it any longer.

And before I forget, I managed to locate an _excellent_ SPN/HP fic, 'We Happy Few' by Guerrie here on ffnet. Thus far, there's only two chapters, but it's shaping up to be an excellent read (and is going to be slash, says so in her summary, but just who's slashed remains to be seen. Personally, I'm thinking Dean and Harry).

Review and let me know what you think.


	4. Chapter 4

**Disclaimer:** This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by J.K. Rowling; various publishers including, but not limited to, Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books; and Warner Bros., Inc. This story is also based on characters and situations created and owned by the writers, producers, et al of the television show 'Supernatural'. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended. This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to any person, internet persona, or other being, living or dead, is completely coincidental and unintentional unless otherwise noted.

**A/N:** Hey, y'all! I'm **BACK**!

I mention a real-life person in the first segment of this chapter (the author at the book-signing) and I feel I ought to mention that I've never met her, nor have I read her book. It was purely chance that, when I was researching Devil's Tower, their event-calendar had her book-signing listed on the day I needed my character in the park. If this real-life person happens to read this and sees herself mentioned, I hope she won't be too upset with me mentioning her in the story.

* * *

**Three Times is Enemy Action**

_10:00 am, May 11, 2008  
Visitor's Center  
Devil's Tower National Monument  
Northeastern Wyoming_

Francis Taylor sighed and splashed some cold water on her face, scrubbing away the last six hours of driving. After drying off with some paper towels, she studied her weary reflection in the washroom mirror. "Come on, Frank. Pull it together. A job's a job, regardless of how dully mundane, and you're not one to let a little thing like your personal life get in the way. Let's see if you can find that author so you can get this over with and find a bar." The last few months hadn't been particularly easy for the photojournalist; coming home early from a trip to Spain had lead to her finding that her girlfriend of six years, Lisa, wasn't precisely faithful. A week, a fistfight, and three screaming middle-of-the-night arguments later had Frank living out of her beat-up pickup truck. Sure, she could've gone and rented her own apartment, but after Lisa… Well, Frank wasn't all too sure if South Dakota was really where she belonged anymore. Besides, she tended to spend more time working in the field than she did at home – which, if she were totally honest with herself, probably was a major contributing factor in Lisa's infidelity.

Shaking her head to dispel the unwanted memories, Frank exited the small bathroom only to almost literally trip over the woman who'd hired her. Karen Appleton, averagely normal in all aspects of her appearance, had some sort of administration position with the park which also covered press releases and had been put in contact with Frank in order to cover a book-signing taking place that afternoon. "There you are, Miss Taylor. Jeanne Rogers has just arrived. If you'd care to follow me, I'll take you to her."

"Lead the way," Frank replied, pasting an unfelt bright smile on her face. _This is gonna be a helluva long day, I can tell already_. Frank wasn't wrong in her assumptions.

While Frank dealt with what had to be the most boring job she'd ever accepted, the Burton family, from Oologah, Oklahoma, were halfway around the base trail of the stump-shaped monolith. Amelia grudgingly trailed behind her nature-freak family, listening to her iPod and mentally bitching about the blisters she was sure to have at the end of the day. Her younger brothers, nine year-olds Jimmy and Sean, were getting yet _another_ lecture from their dad about _not_ climbing the ginormous rocks that littered the short distance between the path and the towering mountain. _Why couldn't I have been an only child?_ she wondered, skipping a couple of tracks on her playlist. _If I was, I'm sure we wouldn't be out here, freezing our asses off._ She stuck her hands back into her light blue jacket. _The Weather Channel's jacked – no way it's seventy degrees right now._

"There's a picnic area just around the bend, honey," Amelia's mom said, pointing to a spot on the trail map. Her dad nodded, indicating he'd heard his wife, but didn't pause in his lecture.

After arriving at the pathetically small cluster of picnic benches, the Burtons ate a light lunch. Mom and Dad discussed where they should head next in their vacation while Jimmy and Sean generally made nuisances of themselves. Amelia hopefully checked her cell phone, but was disappointed when it showed a total lack of signal. She jumped a little when her mom tapped her on the shoulder. Looking up from her technology, Mom mimed removing the headphones. Amelia sighed and did so. "_What_?" she groaned.

"It's time to go. Go get your brothers, they ran off that-a-way," her mom pointed back the way they'd come.

"Mom –"

Her mother crossed her arms over her chest. "Now."

Knowing when her mom used _that_ tone, there wasn't any use in arguing, Amelia got up from the picnic bench and stomped off to find her brothers. "Don't see why _I_ always have to go after the terror-twins," she grumbled, making sure to keep her complaint from being quite loud enough to carry to her parents. After rounding the bend in the trail, she sighed again and shouted, "Jimmy! Sean! Time to go!"

The only reply was an odd reverberation of her own voice echoing off and through the grey rock of the monument.

She was starting to get angry. "Come on, you two! Mom said it's time to go!"

There was still no reply from the boys.

"Don't make me tell Dad who _really_ broke the television!"

When her threat failed to elicit a response, Amelia's irritation started fading to worry. "Come on, guys! Please? This isn't funny anymore!"

_They can't have gone far, it hasn't been that long._ The fifteen year-old stepped off the path and climbed one of the large mounds of stone at the base of the mountain, cursing her sandals all the while. Once in a somewhat stable position on the top of the rock, she cupped her hands around her mouth and shouted again, "Sean! Jimmy!"

An older couple, walking a yellow lab, rounded the bend in the path. The man glanced at Amelia and made a snide-sounding comment to the woman walking with him. At this point, the teenager didn't particularly care what they thought of her. "Excuse me, but did you pass two little boys on the trail? They're nine, blonde, one's got a red jacket, the other's green. My brothers."

"Sorry. Can't help you," the woman replied.

"Thanks anyway," Amelia replied, dismissing the couple and their mutt. After the couple had continued on their way, she amended her comment, "Yeah, thanks for nothing, jackasses." She continued scanning as far as she could see along the path – admittedly, it wasn't as far as she'd like, what with how the path itself was basically a giant circle around the base of the tower. Just when she was about to give up, she noticed a flash of color between the trees.

She let out a small sigh of relief. "You two are _so_ dead for scaring me like that," she muttered, sliding down off of the rock. When her feet hit the ground, she jogged in the direction she'd seen her brother's red windbreaker. Amelia ducked around a large pine tree and made a slight detour to avoid more of the slippery grey boulders.

She came to a skidding halt when she finally caught sight of more than just Sean's jacket. It took several moments for her brain to fully process what she was seeing, but when she did, they could hear her scream back at the Visitor's Center.

* * *

**A/N2:** Sorry about the delay since the last chapter posted, but my RL intruded (though a cross-country trip on a motorcycle may _sound_ like fun, in theory – and I did have fun, don't get me wrong – it was a heck of a lot harder to do than I'd imagined. When I finally got home, my bruises had bruises).

And yeah, this chapter's _really_ on the short side, and totally lacking in my main characters, but sometimes outside POVs have to happen. Sorry. Our wonderful boys will be back in the next chapter, promise!

Review and let me know what you think.


	5. Chapter 5

**Disclaimer:** This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by J.K. Rowling; various publishers including, but not limited to, Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books; and Warner Bros., Inc. This story is also based on characters and situations created and owned by the writers, producers, et al of the television show 'Supernatural'. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended. This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to any person, internet persona, or other being, living or dead, is completely coincidental and unintentional unless otherwise noted.

**A/N:** After lengthy deliberation, I decided to include a character first introduced in Show's third season – simply because I can't get my brain to work this tale any other way. For those of you who are curious, it _isn't_ Bela!Sue (now complete with Tragic Past™!), nor is it Ruby-the-Freakin'-Special-Demon. As you may have been able to infer, I'm not all that fond of either of those characters.

Enough with me jabbering on, though. Happy reading!

**

* * *

Three Times is Enemy Action**

_2:12 am, May 12, 2008  
Singer Salvage Yard  
Outside Pierre, South Dakota_

It took a moment for the noise to make sense to Bobby, but abruptly being pulled from sleep in the middle of the night could do that to anyone. It was the phone. "Hello?" he mumbled into his cell. When the ringing continued, he realized it was the landline. "Damn it." He switched on the bedside lamp with one hand while exchanging the cell for the telephone receiver with the other. "What?" he barked.

"Mr. Singer, I apologize for calling so late, but I need to know how to get in touch with Dean Winchester." The tinny, echoing quality of the voice on the other end of the line was proof enough it originated from a payphone.

"What? Who is this?" Though the voice was vaguely familiar, Bobby couldn't attach it to any of the hunters he knew.

"Frank Taylor, Mr. Singer. You fixed my pickup a few months back? The clutch had burned out."

Suddenly, Bobby recalled the voice. "Oh – the '86 Ford, right?"

"Exactly the same," she sounded relieved he remembered her.

"What you need with Dean?"

"It's kind've a long story, and I've only got enough change for one more call. D'ya know how to get hold of him or not?"

Yeah, the bluntness cemented it for him. Bobby now recalled the owner of that Ford with surprising clarity. He gave her Dean's cell number and made a mental note to wring the whole story out of the older Winchester after he'd had another five hours or so of sleep.

_

* * *

1:24 am, May 12, 2008  
The Longest Yard Bar and Grill  
Denver, Colorado_

"So, where do we go from here?" Dean asked, signaling the waitress for another pitcher.

Harry shrugged and ran a hand through his hair. "Did you want in general or specific?"

"We know the 'in general', so specifically speaking," Sam replied, toying with his still mostly-full glass of beer.

The waitress, a woman who was quite obviously in her mid-to-late fifties, showed at that moment with a full pitcher. "Six-fifty, sugar, and best finish it quick-like. Last call's comin' up in about fifteen and we close at two sharp."

Dean handed over the money and refilled both his and Harry's glasses. Harry polished off half of it in one long go before wiping the foam from his face and topping off the glass. "Specifically, I plan on contacting Snape and giving that wanker an earful. I shouldn't have had to hear about what's going on with the DEs' Marks from Nott, which means he's probably not told _anyone_. Proud bastard."

"Thought you said that wasn't your problem?" Dean asked, once again marveling at Harry's ability to drink – the guy had finished off the better part of five pitchers all by himself and didn't look buzzed in the slightest.

"If it were just for Nott, you bet your arse I wouldn't be buggered to help the fucker. I'm not doing it for him."

"Then who… Oh. Snape. Thought you and he didn't get along?" Sam took a small sip and grimaced at the beer. _There's little else on this planet that tastes as bad as warm beer._

"We don't," Harry cheerfully replied, taking a moment to dig his cigarette case out of his jacket pocket. "But we were – and remain – on the same side. I don't like him and he doesn't like me, but we've invested too much in keeping each other alive at this point for me to just ignore the latest development." He lit a cigarette and used it to punctuate his remarks. "Besides, he may not remember, but that night before the so-called Final Battle, we both agreed that if anyone had the pleasure of killing us, it'd be _us_ that did it, not anyone else. It was why, when there wasn't much else to be done, he 'ordered' that firebomb; it kept the DEs from getting too close to me while I broke the Dark Tosser's neck, and still 'counted' towards our agreement. No one, least of all Snape, thought he'd survive that damn fire. But he did, and so here we are."

Dean's phone chose that moment to spring to life, blaring _Disposable Heroes_ loud enough to be heard over the mixed jukebox-and-bar-crowd noises. "Yeah?" Dean answered it even as he frowned slightly at the unfamiliar number. "Sorry, what?" He was having difficulty hearing the other end of the connection over the noise in the bar. "Just a minute," he got up and walked outside. _Much better,_ he thought on reaching the relative calm of the parking lot. "Now, what was that?"

"Dean?"

"Yeah… Who is this?"

"Frank Taylor – we met a while back out at West Shore on Lake Oahe."

"Oh, hey. Been a while. Kinda figured you'd written me off as a total psycho."

There was a touch of strained laughter on the other end. "No, just been busy. Spain, Denmark, Vancouver, Seoul, and… Where was I on that one? Oh, yeah. Key West."

"So, what's up? I get the feelin' you didn't call me up just to shoot the shit."

"Yeah, not so much. Where are you?"

"Denver. Why?"

"Because I'm up at Devil's Tower and… Fuck. I was s'posed to be covering some piss-ant book signing, but…"

"What happened?"

"Hell, I've covered some of the worst cesspools on the planet, you know? But…"

An automated message interrupted her, "You have one minute remaining. Please deposit one dollar, fifty cents for another three minutes."

"Shit," Frank said. "I don't have any more change."

"Don't sweat it – I'll call you right back." Dean hit 'end' on his cell, then thumbed through his received calls to find the payphone's number.

Half a ring later, Frank answered, "I'm here."

There was silence for several moments before Dean prompted, "You were saying?"

Frank let out a huff of air. "Yeah, sorry." There were some shuffling noises on the other end of the line followed by the distant hoot of an owl. "Like I said, I'm at Devil's Tower. There was this book signing for some historical piece about the park. I was just wrapping up when there was a commotion outside the visitor's center. You know the press, if there's a commotion, we're there. Guess I'm just like the rest, couldn't help myself. God, I wish I'd just gone with my original plan and skedaddled outta here right after I finished with the signing, but _no_, I just _had_ to linger and bullshit with the author."

The voice on the other end of the line didn't mesh very well with the woman Dean remembered; she was obviously shaken and not making a whole lot of sense. "Frank, breathe. You gotta calm down. What happened?"

Frank took several deep breaths and when she spoke again, it was less on the verge of total hysteria. "You know I've seen some badass shit. Hell, I was in New York on 9/11. It didn't get much worse than that, ya know? At least, that was what I always told myself. 'You were there when the Towers fell, girl, ain't _nothing_ worse than that.' Guess I was wrong. There was this family visiting from Fuckoff, Oklahoma. Mom, dad, three kids – a teenager, sixteen, I think, and a pair of twin boys about eight or nine. They were on the trail that circles the base of the monument, stopped off for lunch, and the kids – the boys – went off to play. When the rest of the family was ready to head out, they sent the girl to bring her brothers back to the car. The parents said the boys had been out of sight only ten or fifteen minutes…" She trailed off.

"Frank?" Dean was getting a bad feeling about what Frank was going to say next.

"God, I've _never _seen anything like it, Dean. Not during the S&R on the Towers, not even during the times I've been through _war_ zones." Hysteria began to creep back into her voice as she let out a stress-filled laugh. "You know, there's all these words people have come up with to describe deaths and shit. Dismemberment, disemboweling, exsanguination… What happened to those kids… I think all of the above. Probably more that I just plain don't have the words for." Dean heard her make some gagging noises before she continued. "Right now, the officials are calling it an animal attack; maybe a mountain lion or a wolf. They're gonna be picking pieces up for _weeks_. It ain't no animal attack, though. It _can't_ be."

"What did you see?" Dean asked. When Frank didn't reply, he said, "Come on, Frank. There's gotta be something you saw that makes you think it wasn't Wile E. Coyote."

Frank coughed to clear her voice, "Their clothes. Not just the jackets, but their t-shirts, jeans. Right down to their sneakers and socks. It was all neatly folded and left in the fork of this lodgepole pine that had a split trunk about thirty or forty feet off the ground."

"Have to wonder what the officials thought of that," Dean commented.

"I don't know, I didn't point it out. Figured it meant this was probably out of their league, so I called you."

"Sounds that way. Tell you what, you go find yourself a place to stay and have a drink. Call to let me know where you're staying and I'll give you a call back when I'm closer out that way. Might be a day or two, though."

"Why so long?"

"Me and Sammy are kinda in the middle of something. We'll need to find out if this can wait before heading your way."

"I understand. I'll call you tomorrow, let you know where to find me."

"Sounds good. Talk to you then." Dean flipped his phone closed and returned it to his pocket. On turning around to head back into the bar, he saw that both Harry and Sam were standing just outside the door.

"What's up?" Sam asked.

"That was Frank – that girl I mentioned running into out at Lake Oahe back after that damn bow did what it did. She thinks something weird's happening out at Devil's Tower – couple of kids got killed, locals are calling it a cougar attack, but Frank said the kids' clothes were folded and stuck up a tree."

"We can be out that way in what, six hours?" Harry asked.

Dean nodded. "Yeah, but thought you were gonna look into this whatever it is with those Marks?"

"And I still intend to, but you seem to be forgetting I can't just pop back to the UK and talk to Snape. I got lucky last time, I'm not about to press that luck. Figured I'd send him an owl first, and when that fails to get me any information, I'd floo him. If that doesn't work – which I'm almost positive it won't – then I'll consider other options. It's been six months since I… Sorry," he interrupted himself. "Since _we_ got rid of Voldemort, so whatever's going on with the Marks isn't happening fast. It can wait a little."

"So we catch some shuteye and head out in the morning?" Sam said.

"Sounds like a plan to me," Dean replied.

_

* * *

12:34 pm, May 12, 2008  
Whitney Orphanage  
Alzada, Montana_

The Whitney Orphanage, located six miles outside the township of Alzada, had been in operation for somewhere in the neighborhood of seventy years, with a varying occupancy ranging from five to twenty children of all ages at any given time. For the last ten years, they'd had roughly nine kids. Megan Dirwistle was the oldest at thirteen, and had been there since her parents had been killed in a car accident when she was six. The youngest was John Doe, a baby that had been literally left on the steps of the orphanage in the wee small hours of the morning three weeks earlier. The police may yet find the boy's mother, but Holly Whitney – the third generation of Whitneys to preside over the orphanage – doubted it.

Setting aside some paperwork, Holly readjusted her glasses before looking up at Bryan, the thirty-something she hired to help out around the place. He had a perpetually angry expression on his face, but was one of the sweetest people she'd ever met. "Yes?"

"Deputy Parker just called. He's bringing a little girl in this afternoon. Hopefully only temporary, but…" Bryan trailed off. Holly knew what 'but' entailed. "The girl's all of seven or eight and refuses to talk to anyone."

"What happened?"

"They found her walking down 212 about halfway between here and Hammond. No one's got any idea at this point what happened to her or where her family is. Deputy Parker said that she doesn't match any of the current missing-persons listings, and he also said that Doc Vansen checked her out and she's in perfect health."

"So, whatever it was happened recently."

"That's what Deputy Parker thought, too."

The ringing of the doorbell interrupted any further discussion. "That'd be them, I expect," Holly said, setting her glasses aside and straightening her blouse.

"Where will you want her?"

"Let's put her in with Jesse," Holly replied. Jesse Bright was a talkative nine year-old who wouldn't mind silence from her roommate.

"Sure thing, boss."

Holly grimaced a little as she left her office behind and headed for the front door. Bryan refused to call her anything but 'boss' and she'd long given up trying to get him to call her by name. As she suspected, the callers at the door were none other than Deputy Joe Parker and a solemn-faced little girl. "Miss Whitney, good to see you," Deputy Parker greeted her.

Holly nodded, "You too, Joe." She crouched down a little to look her latest charge in the face. "And who are you?" she asked, her tone not far off from that of a kindergarten teacher. The girl just blinked her large brown eyes in reply. Taking a chance on the evidence given by the girl's dusky complexion and glossy black hair, Holly tried again, "¿Cómo te llamas, hijita? (1)" only to be met with precisely the same response. She smiled reassuringly at the little girl before standing up. "It was worth a shot," she said to Deputy Parker.

"That it was," he agreed. "Sheriff Jones should be by sometime after two with the paperwork for you. I should probably get back to work."

"Take care, Joe."

"You, too, Holly."

After Deputy Parker drove away, Holly reached down and took the little girl's unresisting hand in hers. "Come along, I'll show you around and then we'll go take a look at your room, okay?" Holly spoke to the girl as she led her into the large house, but wasn't expecting a reply. "We'll also see if we've got some other clothes for you, too. You won't want to wear the same thing all the time, right, sweetie? And after we've got that figured out, you can help me make some snacks for the other kids. They'll get back from school at about four o'clock. I was thinking chocolate-chip cookies today."

Holly kept up a stream of what she thought was soothing chatter as she led the girl from room to room in the old Victorian-style house. Just as she was finishing the tour, Bryan showed up and told her that the extra bed in Jesse's room was all set. Holly thanked him and led the little girl to the kitchen. "I imagine you're probably getting hungry, aren't you?"

"Will you be nice to me?"

The sudden response from the little girl startled Holly badly enough that she dropped the lid to the large ceramic cookie jar. The jar itself was styled to look like a large teddy bear, and the lid was the top of its head, but it shattered spectacularly on the polished hardwood floor. "I'm sorry, sweetie. What did you say?" she ignored the shards of crockery for now and knelt to face the little girl.

The girl smiled a gap-toothed grin, "Will you be nice to me?"

"Of _course_," Holly replied. "Why do you ask? Was someone not nice to you before?"

The girl's smile disappeared for half a heartbeat before resuming and doubling in intensity. She had a little dimple on her left cheek. "Of course not, silly! I just wanted to know."

"Can you tell me your name, sweetie?" Before the girl could answer, a shrill cry echoed through the house from the upstairs nursery. Holly looked at the ceiling, mentally grumbling about how the baby had perfect timing.

"Who's that?" the little girl asked.

"His name's John. Do you want to help me feed him?"

The little girl nodded vigorously. Holly took the girl's hand again and led the way to the nursery. She never noticed the way her newest charge's expression had shifted, her eyes losing all traces of color even as the smile tightened into a parody of itself. The expression was fleeting, and by the time Holly did look down at the little girl, she no longer wore it.

Six hours later, the little girl who had once been known as Maria Louisa Castillo Diaz, now dressed in a particularly pretty Easter dress in pale pastel green with yellow trim and a matching hair-ribbon and shoes, skipped happily down the driveway of the Whitney Orphanage. The flames from the Victorian lighting her way to Highway 112; once reaching the road, the waxing moon was enough to light her way.

Originally, she'd been upset that she'd been picked up by that mean old man in the police car, but now she was half-tempted to thank him. He deserved _something_ good for leading her to the one place along her route where she could replenish some of her power levels – they'd been drained horribly when she cut through the iron surrounding the Gate – without arousing major suspicion. But that was neither here nor there. She had something she needed to do, and it wasn't what she'd started out wanting to do, but things had changed and that bully who was trying to take her place needed to be taken care of.

**

* * *

A/N2:** 1.) This is – from what I recall – the Spanish equivalent of asking "What's your name, honeychile?"; an adult posing an informal question to a child using a term of endearment rather than a name. If I'm wrong, please let me know. It's been a heck of a long time since I had a Spanish class.

Review and let me know what you think.


	6. Chapter 6

**Disclaimer:** This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by J.K. Rowling; various publishers including, but not limited to, Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books; and Warner Bros., Inc. This story is also based on characters and situations created and owned by the writers, producers, et al of the television show 'Supernatural'. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended. This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to any person, internet persona, or other being, living or dead, is completely coincidental and unintentional unless otherwise noted.

**A/N:** Though the motel mentioned in this chapter is real enough – and they do, indeed, rent cabins – I made up the cabin in which our favorite characters stay (so if you ever go there and find that cabin 12 either doesn't exist or isn't at all like I've described, you'll know why).

* * *

**Three Times is Enemy Action**

_7:13 pm, May 12, 2008  
Devil's Tower National Monument  
Northeastern Wyoming_

After Harry resized his motorcycle and left the Winchesters with a promise to locate Frank for them, it had been a relatively simple process to bullshit their way past the lingering remnants of the group of law enforcement (and whoever else tagged along with them out on the ass-end of nowhere) in order to take a closer look at the area Frank had described. It probably helped that the locals were thinking it was an animal attack; one of the remaining officers had even mentioned that they were bringing in a tracking expert to hunt down the animal responsible.

Less than five minutes after leaving the parking lot and visitor's center behind, they found the location on the path circling the base of the mountain. It would have been a little hard to miss; even with the off-and-on rain, there was still enough blood smeared around that it was quite patiently obvious that _something_ bad had happened there. The spot looked a little like someone had set off an explosion in a sausage factory; neither Winchester wanted to think too hard on just what the little chunky bits strewn here and there might have been.

Taking care not to trample things any more than the site already was, Dean and Sam split up to look around a little more closely. Sam easily located the boys' clothes right where Frank had said they'd be, stuck way up in a tall pine tree. While nosing around, Dean flicked on the EMF reader. Immediately, it let out a high-pitched squeal and all the lights lit up. The shriek went on for several seconds before the little red LEDs literally exploded. The squeal died slowly as a thin trail of acrid smoke curled up from the circuitry.

"_Damn_," Dean's tone was one of disbelief.

"Whacha got?" Sam called over from where he was looking at something near a boulder.

"I think the EMF overloaded."

Sam looked up. "What?"

"The EMF overloaded."

"Is that even _possible_?"

Dean just held the reader up. "Looks like."

* * *

_7:45 pm, May 12, 2008  
The Hulett Motel  
Hulett, Wyoming_

Frank was working on her third pack of cigarettes since seeing the carnage that had once been Jimmy and Sean Burton of Oologah, Oklahoma. Not even most of a bottle of cheap whiskey could erase the images enough for her to sleep. After staring up at the ceiling of the living area of cabin twelve for several hours – she wasn't entirely sure just how long it had been, only that the room didn't spin at all when she stood up again – Frank had given up sleep as a lost cause and went for a walk. The town of Hulett wasn't quite large enough to allow her sufficient room to roam, but it beat sitting around and doing nothing; besides, the bar had closed at one. When her watch said it was a reasonable hour, she used her cell – which sported a whole two antenna-bars more signal than the zero at the national park – to call Dean and let him know she'd gotten a cabin at The Hulett Motel. She was pretty sure she had managed to wake him up, but decided after only a moment's hesitation in which to ponder it, that she didn't care if she had. After contacting Dean, Frank had headed back to the motel and ended up spending most of the day, intermittent light rain ignored, sitting on a park bench just outside the office, smoking and trying desperately _not_ to think.

"Frank?" The voice startled her badly enough to make her drop her half-empty pack of Camel menthols and the cheap plastic Bic she'd been absently toying with. "Easy there," the voice said, even as she leaned over to pick them up. When she looked up, she saw a guy she didn't know; he was only a couple of inches taller than she was, and wore a pair of khakis and a hooded, grey sweatshirt under a leather motorcycle jacket. His helmet was tucked under his arm.

"Yeah," she nodded, "I'm Frank. Who're you?"

"I'm a friend of Dean's." The man smiled disarmingly and offered his hand, "Harry Potter." Frank shook his hand and stood. "He and Sam wanted to swing by the park and take a look out there before coming this way. We would've called, but cell service in this part of the country is hit-and-miss at best. I volunteered to come this way and let you know what was going on."

"Thanks. Yeah, the cell service out here could do with another dozen towers or so." After a minute or so of awkward silence, Frank sighed and lit another cigarette before sinking back to her position on the park bench.

"Care if I join you?" Harry asked. When Frank shook her head, he sat next to her, pulling a silver cigarette case from his jacket pocket as he did so. "Can I borrow your lighter?"

Frank handed over the green Bic. "Isn't that the chemical map for caffeine?" she asked, gesturing to the design engraved on the surface of Harry's silver case.

Harry chuckled, "Yeah. Friend of mine gave it to me a couple of years ago. Told me that if they ever made caffeinated cigarettes, I'd be in seventh heaven."

For the first time in what felt like forever, Frank smiled a little. "I suppose, if they ever did, I'd be right there with you. As it stands, the closest we can get are coffee-flavored mini-cigars. Don't care much for cigars, though. They make my mouth numb."

"Oh, I don't know. A cigar every now and then, especially if there's something worth celebrating, isn't half bad."

Frank made a face that clearly communicated what she thought of _that_. Taking a drag, she turned her face up to the sky for a moment before returning her attention to Harry. "So, um… Do you… I mean, are you…"

Harry snorted in amusement. "At least I know why you're just a photographer and not a journalist. Are you always this articulate?"

"Hey! I am too a journalist! Just because I do my reporting with a camera lens and not a WP program –"

Harry held his hands up in the universal signal for surrender, "Okay, I give. Just teasing, anyway." Frank glared at him. "But, to answer the question for which you were struggling so valiantly to find the words – yes, I'm in the same line of work as Dean."

"How do you know what I wanted to ask?"

Harry finished his smoke. "Trade secret, luv," he smirked. "Trade secret."

"Are you naturally this frustrating or do you have to work at it?"

Harry's smirk broadened into a true smile, "Only when I need to be. When I got here, you were obviously on the verge of freaking out – I've seen it often enough to know what it looks like, so you can quit scowling at me. Besides, it worked."

Frank really wanted to dispute Harry's words, but found that he was right – she didn't feel so much like the world was spiraling out of control anymore. Besides, Frank was pretty sure Harry could talk anyone into anything if he put his mind to it. She sighed a little and climbed to her feet. "Well, then. The cabin is back this way."

The small cabin Frank had rented for the week was cheerily quaint; it had yellow-checked curtains in the living room and over the sink of the kitchenette, sported a hand-woven rag rug in front of the stone fireplace, and had several mediocre landscapes on the walls. The upstairs portion was divided into two rooms – a bedroom and a bath. When she'd signed in, the clerk had told her that the cabins were designed to sleep as many as six people; the bedroom sported two queen-size beds with heavy homestyle quilts and the sofa in the living area folded out. The closet in the bathroom held a massive assortment of towels and blankets; that fact alone was enough to make Frank happy that they weren't visiting in the middle of winter. Among the usual amenities, the cabin also had a small stacked washer/dryer in a closet between the living area and the small kitchen. She apologized for the lack of Wi-Fi, but the motel did offer internet access through a LAN connection.

While Frank saw about getting herself a shower, Harry plugged his computer into the LAN and settled in to see what he could learn about what happened at the park. He didn't find much online and resorted to calling the local sheriff's department. All they told him was the same head-in-the-sand story they'd managed to convince themselves was what had to have happened; a simple animal attack, probably due to rabies. _Hopefully, Dean and Sam found out something more useful at the park._ He didn't have to wait long.

About the same time that Frank was finishing up with her shower, the distinctive sound of the Impala pulled to a stop just outside the cabin. Squinting through the rapidly-failing daylight, he saw that Dean had parked between Frank's beat-up truck (complete with camper-shell over the bed) and his bike. He watched as the brothers grabbed their things from the trunk of the car; they were talking, but Harry couldn't hear what they were saying.

"What did you find out at the park?" Harry asked when Dean entered the cabin.

"Not much," Dean replied, setting his tool box on the table in the kitchen area. "Just a whole bunch of gore. Oh, and my EMF burned out." He removed the piece of equipment from his jacket and sat it next to the tool box.

Harry looked up from his perusal of the local businesses, "What?"

Sam entered the cabin with the last few things from the Impala. "What what?" he asked, tossing the duffels on the sofa and setting his computer case on the table next to Harry's. Dean replied by holding up the reader.

Harry let out a low whistle. "Damn. What the hell could have caused that?"

"Just guessing, but I'd say it was probably whatever it was that killed those kids." Sam pulled out his computer as he spoke. "Though 'liquefied' might be a better term."

Dean set about pulling tools out of the box. "Maybe…"

"What?" Harry scooted his own laptop closer to him to make a little more room on the cramped table.

Selecting a screwdriver, Dean began taking apart the EMF reader. "It's just that there's a whole crapload of lore out there about that mountain. Some of it's stupid – it's a beacon for UFOs and shit like that – but some of it might have some bearing on the truth. Hey, Sammy? We know anyone who ever had a hunt out this way?"

"Huh…I'm not sure." He waited for the computer to finish booting. "I'll start looking into that side. Harry, why don't you see what there is to find out about the lore?"

"I can do that."

Ten minutes later, after realizing that there was only one Ethernet jack in the cabin, Sam and Harry networked the laptops so they could research simultaneously while Dean reduced the EMF to a pile of parts. While they were working, Frank emerged from the bathroom and took a seat on the sofa, almost completely unnoticed by the guys.

* * *

_8:10 pm, May 12, 2008  
The Bonnet Farm  
Highway 112  
Halfway between Alzada, MT and Hulett, WY_

Wyatt Bonnet climbed reluctantly up off of the sofa after the knocking at the door failed to disappear after nearly a full ten minutes. His shin barked against the coffee table, sending a collection of empty beer cans clattering to the floor where they joined the assortment of dirty dishes, magazines, and balled-up socks. His head still reeling somewhat from the vodka he'd used to get to sleep, Wyatt stumbled towards the door. "Keep your fuckin' shirt on, you bastard," he shouted, reaching into the breast pocket of his tattered red-and-yellow-checked flannel shirt. He came up with a battered pack of Marlboros and managed to light one just as he flung the front door open. "What?"

There wasn't anyone there. At least, that's what he thought before a small cough drew his attention downwards. A little girl in a frothy green Easter dress smiled up at him. "You a fuckin' Girl Scout or somethin'?" It was probably his hangover that kept him from noticing that there wasn't a car in the driveway.

The girl's smile brightened, "No." She looked him over in a manner that was somewhat creepy, considering she couldn't have been older than ten. "You'll do."

He took a drag off his smoke. "I'll do what?"

The girl's expression didn't change at all as she made a motion with her hand. A brain-shatteringly dizzy moment later and Wyatt found himself pinned to the wall separating the living room from the kitchen. The girl stepped into the foyer, holding the door open as a thick, roiling mass of black drifted through. Wyatt tried to say something – _anything_ – but the words just wouldn't come. The last thing Wyatt saw before everything went black was the little girl stomping on the smoldering cigarette, her expression fleetingly one of disgust.

* * *

_11:45 pm, May 12, 2008  
The Hulett Motel, Cabin 12  
Hulett, Wyoming_

Had anyone ever asked Frank for her speculations on what life was like for the guy who'd managed to make her realize that her suspicions on some of what she'd seen were really _real_, she probably wouldn't have come up with what she was seeing. It wasn't that she was seeing anything really out of the ordinary, and that was probably why it just made her feel more and more disassociated from her surroundings. Dean was soldering a couple of wires down while Harry and Sam traded off research on their computers with several phone calls to people with ever-odder names. She was almost completely positive that the guys had forgotten she was even there, so it surprised her when, after ducking out onto the cabin's tiny front stoop for a smoke, Dean followed her.

"You should probably get some sleep," he said.

She nodded, her face partially lit by the weak streetlights at the end of the parking lot. "I know. I've got another story to chase down. Fuck, I shoulda been outta here yesterday. S'posed to meet up with a couple of other journalists in Dallas come the fifteenth before flying down to Venezuela for the next two months." She tore her gaze from the Impala and turned to face Dean. "But I can't get it out of my head. I mean," she drew on her cigarette, "it's one thing to have something weird show up in a picture, but…_this_?"

"Hey, I tried to tell you."

Frank nodded again. "I know. It's just… What the hell do I do now?"

"Now what?"

She snickered a little, "Didn't I just ask that?" Tossing her half-smoked cigarette into a puddle by the bottom of the steps, she clarified, "Now that it's more than just pictures, I mean."

Dean shrugged, "Hell if I know."

"Aren't you supposed to be the expert here?"

"Yeah, I know this shit. But there's a big difference between you and me – I've never known anything else. How do you deal with the world being a helluva lot more fucked up than you thought? I _really_ don't know."

Frank pulled her denim jacket a little tighter around herself and looked back out at the parking lot. When the sun went down, it felt like the land forgot how to be reasonably warm. "But…"

"Look, Frank," Dean reached out and laid a hand on her shoulder. When she met his eyes, he continued, "There's not a whole lot you _can_ do. It's like if you come up on a car accident. You call the experts and hope that everything winds up okay, maybe drive a little more carefully from then on."

"I guess I can see that." She sighed. "Okay, Mr. Expert. How?"

"How what?"

"What you said – how do I 'drive more carefully' from here on out?"

Dean grinned at her.

"What?"

"Nothin'."

"No, really. What?"

"Just…you're taking this a whole lot better than most."

"Not from where I'm standing. I feel like reality's about to fly apart at the seams."

"Then you hide it well," the smirk had yet to fade from Dean's face. "Anyway, there's not a whole lot to it – salt, holy water, iron, silver, some Latin. Why don't you go upstairs and get some sleep? If you're going to make your flight on the fifteenth, you've got a helluva long drive ahead of you."

"That's it? That's all you're going to leave me with?"

Dean let out a huff of amused air, "No, not all. I'll give you a list before you head out. It'll be something for you to read on the plane."

"I'm gonna hold you to that, you know."

Dean's only reply was to hold the door open for her.

A few minutes later, after rejoining Sam and Harry at the table, Sam smirked at his brother. Dean caught the sidelong glance as he set about recalibrating the newly-repaired EMF reader. "Shuddup, Sammy."

"I didn't say anything," he replied, refocusing on the computer screen.

Dean could hear his brother's smug tone and only barely managed to keep from rolling his eyes. "It's not like that. She's got a girlfriend."

Sam slumped a little in his chair, hoping that the computer screen would be enough to hide his grin. It wasn't. The grin evaporated as Dean's boot connected with his shin. "What was that for?"

Dean just glared lightly at him. "So, what did you two find out?"

"Not a whole lot," Harry replied, picking up a small notebook. "There's a couple of small museums in the area that might have some more information available. Much as we may wish it were so, the internet doesn't yet hold everything." He handed the notebook to Dean.

Dean scanned the page of chicken-scratch. "Okay, so tomorrow, you see what you can find out at the county records office. Sam, you can check the museum at the park and the one here in town."

"What about you?" Harry asked.

"I'll see if that family is still in the area. See if any of them saw anything weird."

* * *

**A/N2:** Sorry this took so long to get out, but I was having issues getting the disparate bits of the story to behave. Hopefully, there won't be any more lengthy waits for this story.

Just a friendly reminder – I don't write romance well or often, so my preceding assertion stands: Frank is not a romantic interest.

Review and let me know what you think.


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